


The Founders Four

by antebunny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Dark Age England, Family Issues, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts Founders Era, It's probably wrong anyway, Male-Female Friendship, Salazar Needs A Hug, The Founders Four, Violence, Weird British Culture, battles, epic-y, ugh when did they get paper can I just give them paper?, what's up with religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antebunny/pseuds/antebunny
Summary: Helga Hufflepuff is the only witch in her Welsh family of tailors. Godric Gryffindor practices battle magic wandlessly whenever he can escape his father. Rowena Ravenclaw created most Runes used in Hogwarts before she was sixteen. Salazar Slytherin, with a haunting family past, needs his own story.This is their story. The story of their hopes, their dreams, their faults, their families.This is the story of the Founders Four.





	1. Hufflepuff from Valley Broad

 

This story takes place in the tenth century (901 to 1,000 A.D.). Lots of people have been in and out of England, pillaging and plundering. Jutes, Irish, Scots (referred to then as Picts) and of course, Angles and Saxons. By the time the tenth century rolls around, England is more or less stable—save for the royalty, who are constantly killing each other. In 978 A.D. King Edward is murdered in Dorset, probably by supporters of his half brother, Ӕthelred, who gets crowned king after Edward died.

King Ӕthelred the Unready, as he is known as, is king from 978 to 1016 A.D. By that time, England is Christian and happily burning witches (although that doesn’t really have to do with Christianity: Queen Mary burned people at the stake just for disagreeing with her. There was a Southeast Asia/India empire that made walls with the bodies of those they conquered while they were still alive. My point is, people didn’t really need a reason to burn people alive if they had enough power *cough* Hitler *cough* or if people honestly agree with their reasons, aka ‘witches! They’ve come to… do evil! Sway us away from God! Lead us to eternal Hell! BURN them! BURN THE WITCHES!) Also, please do note that slavery wasn’t banned in the UK much earlier than it was in the US, they just didn’t have a bloody civil war over it. And some people may consider that worse than being burned alive. MY POINT IS, people used to do very horrible things very blatantly!

Honestly, people just didn’t accuse people of being witches that much. (It leads to a whole “it was HER! SHE got me to sign the Devil’s book!” “Well…because SHE convinced me!” “Yeah, and I did it because of…HIM! He’s a demon/wizard/Satanist!”) And because there just wasn’t anything to accuse some random woman of, besides a mysterious sickness or series of unfortunate events.

King Arthur is thought to have been a Roman general left behind when the Roman conquest in Britain collapsed, around the fifth or sixth century. But Merlin was real! He was! 

IMPORTANT NOTE: I don’t know anything about British culture, much less British culture at the end of the Dark Ages! I’m makin’ this up! I can look up things, such as paper made its way to Europe in the eleventh century, the history of Scottish clans, and words in Latin and Old English, but I mean, it was the Dark Ages! Come on! Most of the places mentioned are real, but they probably weren’t in the tenth century. (The rest of the places are from Harry Potter or for the purpose of this story).

ALSO IMPORTANT NOTE: Apparently in Britain, Scotland is also referred to as Albania. It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. Albania the country, as in the one next to Greece and Macedonia, didn't become a country until 1914 at the earliest, and even then the legitimacy was questionable. So when Helena Ravenclaw, aka the Gray Lady, said she hid the Diadem in a forest in Albania, she didn't mean the Republic of Albania that wouldn't exist for another nine hundred or so years. She meant Scotland, which makes  _even more sense_ when you consider the fact that "glen"  _also_ refers to Scotland, and the Sorting Hat described Ravenclaw as "Ravenclaw from Glen". 

SLIGHTLY LESS IMPORTANT NOTE: I will be inventing lots of stuff about Runes (they’re not Ancient yet) and Arithmancy, along with more magical theory, that is mentioned but never discussed in canon.

So we have the Archbishop of Canterbury, King Ӕthelred the Unready of England, fuzzy British culture, witch burning, and the Founders Four!

 

Chapter One

* * *

 

**Hufflepuff from Valley Broad**

 

**March 18, 983 A.D. In the fenlands right outside of Selborne, England**

 

The _Melis Forum_ were slowly making their way from their home valleys down to the south. As the tall grass of the valleys faded away into the muddy marshes of the south, the sun sank lower in the sky, casting vibrant sunset colors across the canvas blue sky, spotted with unspun cotton clouds. The air smelled of a wet spring passing, accompanied with the calls of birds flitting from the trees that spotted the wild fenlands.

Well, they called themselves the Badger Clan in private, but in reality, there were only five of them: Harriet and her children Helene, Henry, Harold, and Helga. They were a family of tailors and seamstresses, traveling in a single caravan pulled by two horses across the southern marshes. Harold and Henry sat outside, guiding the horses. Helene and her mother Harriet sat inside, carefully threading silver embroidery through a deep blue silk tunic.

Helga held not needles or horsewhips but a wand.

Helga’s great-grandfather had made it; maple with unicorn horn core. It had been passed down to her father and then to her. They hadn’t seen a unicorn since. But then, they hadn’t seen a dragon or a phoenix either, although those made sense: knights were constantly trying to hunt dragons these days and phoenixes were always out of sight, high up in the sky.

As Helga waved her wand, the silk and needles rose up and began to thread themselves, stitching black on green silk. Bolts of cloth rose in the air and cut themselves into various shapes, neatly and efficiently, the scraps falling on the wooden floor where the family sat. Helga turned her attention to the stale bread that sat, rotting, in the boxes that contained the entirety of their food for the journey. Her brow creased slightly as she waved her wand over it… and slowly, it transformed into a fresh loaf of brioche that made her siblings’ mouths water. Helga immediately turned back to the fabrics.

“Take a break, Helga,” Helene said. “Come have supper with us!”

“No, no,” she protested. “We make it there by nightfall, and there is still so much work to do!”

“Mother and I will do it,” Helene sighed. “I swear, one day you will work yourself to death.”

“You keep saying that.”

“‘Tis true,” her brother commented as he came inside. Henry took a seat on the wooden floor with a huff and made a grab for the bread. “I hath heard a moste sacred word!”

“‘Supper’?”

“Precisely, dear sister, precisely.”

“Mother said that this was a tough customer!”

“Yes, and very wealthy. Why do you think he asked for us, all the way from the Welsh valleys?”

“Exactly! And if he is so wealthy, it would be no hindrance to pay another seamstress-”

“But if he wants it done fast-”

“And he does, seeing as he asked for us for precisely that reason-”

“He doesn’t; he knows we’re coming from valley broad-”

“He asked for us because of the quality of our works, and we know who to thank for that-”

Helga blushed, losing track of her argument.

“Are you going to just leave me out here?” Harold called.

“Yes indeed!” Henry called back cheerfully. “This bread? It is mine.”

“You said that just a fortnight ago,” Helene said dryly, and Harold laughed from outside. “Please refrain from sounding so mundane, truly, it bores the mind.”

“No worries,” Helga said immediately. “Would you hand me our Latin book?”

The book was the only treasure that the family possessed, not because of its worth in particular, but because it was necessary. Although, it was rare enough to find a commoner who owned a book, much less one who spoke (or read Latin).

It had been their father’s.

“I have been working on a new one,” Helga said, and immediately the caravan was stopped so that Harold could come and watch.

Spells, Helga had discovered, were like another language, a language that was luckily very similar to Latin.

“Tell us the process,” Mother commanded, carefully setting down her needlework.

“Ah, yes. Of course. I started out with water: aqua. As per usual, that was too vague, so I added ‘send’: mittiti aquam. That did not have satisfactory results, so I tried flipping the two words around: aquamittiti. That worked better, so I kept on experimenting…vowels, et cetera-”

And her family could guess at how long it had taken her, for they had heard most of her ‘experiments’.

“-And found that switching the ‘q’ for a ‘g’ worked quite nicely, and the first ‘i’ for an ‘e’. I continued with consonants, added an ‘n’, discarded a few ‘t’s’, and got aguameniti. My last step was just to get rid of another ‘i’. _Aguamenti!_ ”

A thin stream of water burst from the tip of her wand and landed on two disgruntled horses. The family started cheering.

“Praise the Lord! No more stale water!” Henry cheered.

“Henry!” Mother scolded. Helga’s older brother subsided. “Thank you, Helga.”

She smiled warmly. “Please, I did it for us merry band of badgers. Supper, anyone?”

 

**March 18, 983 A.D. Selborne, England**

It was ‘bar time’ when their caravan finally rolled into town. At least, that was the name the two brothers had given it: the time of night when men were off getting drunk in the local tavern. Helga duly noted that it was on the opposite side of town from the church, as was the lord’s manor. The manor was behind the church, on the top of another hill.

“Time to pick up the town gossip,” Henry said jauntily.

Helene scowled. She was forbidden from the tavern, by society in general. “I doubt there is anything worth noting. Not in a town this small.”

The cozy little town of Selborne sat on top of a hill, with little dirt roads, most barely big enough for a single horse. And yet the Lord of Selborne was very wealthy, for this was the only place among the fenlands that wasn’t, well, fenlands. As such, it could support far more produce than the rest of the area, and it did.

They rented a few rooms at the inn after being reassured that their caravan wouldn’t be stolen—it was a small town, where were they going to hide it? The two horses were unsaddled and taken to the stables.

Harriet settled onto her bed with a sigh. “Lord, I missed beds.”

“You said the same thing about the innkeeper’s mutton stew, Mother,” Helene said wryly.

“Don’t talk back to me,” Mother said cheerfully, in far too good a mood to put any real threat behind her words.

“Of course, Mother dearest.”

“Helene-”

“Very well-”

Mother sighed. “Where are your brothers?”

“Still at the tavern,” Helga replied, poking her head in the door.

Even with her hand held up, resting against the doorframe, you couldn’t see the wand in her sleeve, fitted snugly in a pocket that Mother had sewn on, not with the loose yellow sleeves and ruffled inner layers. It may look far too fancy for an ordinary commoner, but Helga’s family did make dresses for a living, and Helga was certainly no ordinary commoner.

She was a witch.

Although, her family so studiously avoided calling her that to the point where Helga didn’t think she had ever been called a witch. Even in private, her family avoided saying ‘magic’ and instead called it her ‘gift’. Perhaps it was in order to not associate Helga with the ‘normal’ witches—the ones that were burned on the stake, along with women accused of being witches when they were blatantly not. Her brothers had found a roundabout, logical way of thinking about it: normal witches got their ‘magic’ from Satan, whereas Helga had gotten it from their father—and clearly, Father couldn’t have been Satan because then Helga’s other three siblings would be half demon too. _And if Father was Satan, he wouldn’t have married Mother, and he wouldn’t have died, but that wasn’t mentioned out loud in the family. Ever._

Helga had her own doubts with that argument. It seemed most likely to her that ‘normal’ witches—the real ones, that is, had gotten their magic from their own mothers, or maybe fathers, and while their mothers hadn’t been ‘caught in the act’, they had. Personally, she thought her brothers’ argument was just to deal with their own guilt about knowing there were girls just like their little sister out there—being burned alive. Helga fantasized sometimes about going out there and rescuing them and teaching them, but she wasn’t ambitious, and she wasn’t particularly courageous or adventurous. She didn’t know battle magic, either, she didn’t have the time to do much other than ‘cooking’ and household magic.

She was Helga Hufflepuff, from valley broad—hard-working, kind, steadfast, honest and honorable seamstress and cook Helga, the witch of the _Melis Forum_ , the Badger Clan. Not a mediwitch or a battle witch. Or a sorceress, like the infamous Irish witch the Morrígan, or an enchantress, like mysterious Morgana LeFay.

“They’re coming back now,” Helene commented idly, jerking Helga out of her thoughts.

All three women heard the boys tromp by to their own room, before showing up a few minutes later.

Both had huge grins on their faces, of a cat who has caught the fish.

“Are you sober?” Mother asked warily.

“Yes,” Henry answered. “I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.”

“I stopped him,” Harold said. “He tried.”

“He lies!”

Helene gave a very unladylike snort.

Mother frowned.

Helga sighed. “Any news?” She asked, in an attempt to distraction that worked surprisingly well.

“Yes!” Both said immediately.

“While there is so little news in this town that us, the traveling tailors are newsworthy, there is something else…” Henry continued.

“Well?” Helene demanded when it was clear that Henry was trying to draw out the suspense.

“There is a demon boy,” Harold said.

Helga jumped, Helene let out a little eep! and Mother’s hand flew to her mouth.

“What?” Helene asked, incredulously.

“Ah, there is a huge debate over it,” Harold continued. “Some people think that he is being possessed by a demon, some people think he sold his soul to the Devil, and some people think he is a demon.”

“Who?”

“The lord’s son,” Henry said.

“Deus meus!” Mother gasped. “But that’s…that’s…”

“Yes,” Harold said gravely (well, he was trying), “that’s the son of our client, Lord Alder, and his wife, Lady Sabrine.”

“And we are to serve these people?” Mother asked incredulously.

“Ehm, yes,” Henry said. “Apparently Lord Alder ‘forgot’ to mention it. It was discovered two years ago when a serving maid saw him turn a knife into a snake and summon a black fire-”

“And set his own pet snake on her-”

“No, it was the same snake-”

“No, he set his snake on her, and when she stabbed it with her knife he turned her knife into a snake-”

“No, he summoned the black fire when she stabbed it-”

“He did both-”

“Do you,” Helga interrupted quietly, “think he’s like me?”

Silence.

“You don’t turn knives into snakes,” Henry pointed out sensibly. “Or summon black fire.”

“I do transform things,” Helga argued. “And I summon water. But I mean, most people think that witches are women who have sold something to the Devil. And I’m a witch.” She gestured as if to say, ‘and I haven’t sold anything to the Devil’.

Her entire family flinched.

“What?” She asked dryly. “Did you think I was a magical seamstress?”

“Helga, I forbid you to have anything to do with that boy!” Mother said immediately.

“What?” Helga said again, in a completely different tone. “What do you mean? I-I didn’t-”

“You don’t want to end up like him,” Henry said seriously. “When I said it had been discovered two years ago—nobody has seen him since, but holy men have been riding in and out of the village all the time now, and three days ago another group came in, and there’s a rumor going around that-” He swallowed, almost imperceptibly. “-That they’re going to try to burn it out of him.”

Silence.

“That boy is nothing like you,” Mother said firmly, and Helga gaped at her. She had just heard that the boy’s parents were getting someone to burn him alive, and this was all she could say?!

“He-” Mother began, but Helga interrupted, unable to stop herself.

“Then he’s like Father!”

Her siblings blanched.

And Mother… Mother _hissed._ “Don’t you ever mention your father ever again!”

“Wh-what’s th-”

_“Stop.”_

Helga stopped.

“I don’t want to hear about this ever again,” Mother said. Her voice was barely a whisper, but to Helga it seemed the loudest sound in existence. “Your brothers and I will take the finished works up to the manor. You will stay in here and do the cooking and the sewing. Am I understood?”

Cooking and sewing, Helga thought sadly. Is that all my family thinks I’m good for? _Is_ that all I’m good for?

“AM I UNDERSTOOD!” Mother shouted, and Helga jumped, frankly terrified. The last time Mother had shouted was when Harold had shoved Helene off a cliff.  

“Yes, Mother,” Helga said quickly. “Understood.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Um. Thank you for reading, please leave a comment, and have a good life. :)
> 
> Also, eat ice cream.
> 
> But seriously, leave a comment.


	2. Gryffindor from Wild Moor

Chapter Two:

* * *

 

GRYFFINDOR FROM WILD MOOR

 

**March 18, 983 A.D. Godric’s Hollow, England**

 

Parry. Backslash, block, uppercut, half-circle, parry, side-step, side slash, block, stab, retreat, half-circle again, locked hilts—disengage.

“Faster!” Sir Gellert demanded as soon as they took a step back.

“I’m trying!” His son panted, and indeed, he was, and he had succeeded—he just wasn’t fast enough.

“Not fast enough!” Father snapped. “If I was an enemy soldier I wouldn’t give you time to lace up your boots, so get moving!” Even as he spoke, he was lunging for his son again.

Although he was tired, his blade flashed with an alarming speed downwards and caught Sir Gellert’s blade almost vertical to his legs—if Father had managed to swing it upwards, it would have sliced him right between the legs. A killing stroke. (Not just gross). He stepped back, but his father advanced, and they began again.

Thrust. Parry. Block. Slash. Stab. Sir Gellert’s blade point headed directly for his son’s left shoulder blade, but he simply turned in a quarter circle while setting his own blade for Father’s unprotected neck. But Father had expected this, and caught his blade above his head. His lips thinned into a determined line as Father put his force into his own blade, trying to bring it down on his shoulder. He side-stepped again, moving his own blade out of the way, but naturally, Sir Gellert didn’t stumble. His blade didn’t even come close to wavering at the sudden lack of resistance.

No, he advanced again and continued.

An hour later, he was fighting three of Father’s foot soldiers while Father watched from the side, barking things like “watch your footwork, you’re going to trip over your own feet, boy!”

“He could’ve killed you right there when you weren’t watching, lackluster!”

“Stop scampering away, boy, are you a lion or a mouse?!”

Father finally ran out of commentary when he sent the last one face-first into the dust.

“Good job,” he said curtly. “Clean up. Practice in my study.”

He suppressed a groan. “Yes, Father.”

He knew, logically, that his father was training him to be prepared for any danger (and Lord knew there was plenty of _that_ out there), but he also knew that Father wanted him to be as good as his grandfather—his grandfather, who had been born in the wild moors, lord of this town, and had become the most famous knight of his time. So famous that he had gotten his hometown named after him, the town Father grew up in, the town he lived in, and the town that was also sort of named after him, because Father had given him the same name as his grandfather.

And now he was going to go practice ‘sounding fancy’, as he called it, but never to Father’s face. Hopefully after he stopped sweating so hard.

Most likely Father would be going over important people history.

“Lion,” he mumbled to himself. “Right. I’m a lion.”

The three men, groaning on the grassy ground, looked at him strangely.

 

He was wrong. Father wanted to go over Latin conjugations.

“Quia dereliquit me,” He recited. “Et ego ad sinistram, reliquit eum, et reliquit, quia derelicti sunt, quoni… quoniam derelicti sumus, qui et—ad sinistram omnes vos.”

“Again.”

“Quia dereliquit me, et ego ad sinistram, reliquit eum, et reliquit, quio—quia derelicti, quoniam derelict—derelicti sumus, qui ad sinistram amo… omnes vos.”

“Again.”

“Quia dereliquit me, et ego ad sinistram, reliquit eum, et reliquit, quia derelicti, quoniam derelicti sumus, qui ad sinistram omnes vos.”  
Useless. Boring, useless, and time consuming, in his opinion.

“Good. To advance.”

“Intuli respondetur, non attulere, processit enim, illa qu—quae afferuntur, illa profecerimus, nobis reddiderunt, habent provectis amni… omnibus vobis.”

I have advanced, you have advanced, he has advanced, she has advanced, they have advanced, we have advanced, you all have advanced. Woo-hoo.

“Again.”

“Intuli respondetur, non attulere, processit enim, illa quae afferuntur, illa profecerimus, nobis reddiderunt, habent provectis omnibus vobis,” he repeated again, dutifully.

“Good. To retreat.”

“Ego receptum…”

“Wrong. That is ‘I have retreat’, which you most definitely do not have.”

“Ego…”

“Wrong.”

He thought for a second. “…Me terga…?”

“Good. Continue.”

“Me terga…verten…vertentus?”

“Close. Try again.”

“Me terga verten _tum?”_

“Closer. Try again.”

“Me terga verten _tem_.” I have retreated. Ever-so useful, dearest Father.

“Good. Continue.”       

It was grueling. And he had been doing this everyday since he had turned ten.

Three hours later, he stumbled into his own chambers, discarding his ‘scholar’ robe on the floor carelessly. And to the surprise of anyone who knew him, grabbed a book. A journal, actually. There was a reason he disliked Latin lessons less than important people lessons.

The journal had been his grandfather’s, and Father had discarded it as ‘some strange fabrication of my father’s. Useless.’ Paper, which already existed in the Middle East and China (currently the Han Dynasty), wouldn’t make its way to Europe until the eleventh century, but to his grandfather, who could Apparate back and fly there, that’s not really a problem. Father wouldn’t know that his son had kept it.

He had kept it because there was another talent he had inherited from his grandfather, one that he was sure Father didn’t have or know about, otherwise he wouldn’t have thrown away this journal. Because it wasn’t just a journal. It was a book of spells. His grandfather had been a mage, and so was he.

 _Moste Potente Booke of Magicke ,_ it said, (in Latin), once you turned the cover.

_By Sir Godric Gryffindor, Battle Mage._

Godric Gryffindor, wizard, swordmaster-because-let’s-be-real-who’s-gonna-knight-him, and grandson of Sir Godric Gryffindor, opened it to the section titled _Incantatems for Warding Againste Beings Moste Evile_ and crossed out _familia exemplus_ with his quill. He had tested it yesterday (yes, by throwing rocks, don’t judge) and it hadn’t worked. He flipped to the section titled _Offensive Incantatems Againste Ye Common Folke_ and let a little drop of ink fall right next to _petrificus totalus._ That one would come in useful. If only he could say it faster. There were also some in a section called _Offensive Incantatems Againste Beings Moste Evile_ that he was afraid to test out, such as _dolorimus_ ( _dolor_ meant pain, so…) and _statum moriter._

Godric had played with the idea of telling Father a few times, if only to gain his approval. Being a mage would certainly be useful in a battle, and it would mean that Godric was even more like his grandfather. Once he almost had—and then news reached their town of a man from Marlowe who had turned out to be a wizard and cursed two children in the town before he was killed by a mob of angry villagers before he could recite the Lord’s Prayer. (Wizards and witches weren’t supposed to be able to recite the Lord’s Prayer, which was complete hogwash because Godric could). Apparently he had hypnotised the children into walking off a cliff.

Personally, Godric thought that the children were simply sleepwalking, because if the man had been a sorcerer—or a wizard, he supposed, he could have used the _Technique of Travel Moste Swifte_ his grandfather had mentioned in his journal. _Apparitus,_ Godric called it, using _appear_ and changing a few letters. _The Arte of Apparitus._ It sounded… reasonably Latinish. Right?

But Father had gone on a long rant about men accepting deals with Satan. _It was to be expected of women,_ Father had said. _Being naturally weak-minded and easy to frighten._ They needed men to take care of them, so it was absolutely unacceptable for a man to follow suit—like Adam in the Garden of Eden, following Eve in a path away from God. As Father said.

Godric disagreed—grandfather had gone on long soliloquies about Grandmother (honestly, he made her name sound like one of his section titles: _My_ _Faire Lady Moste Beauteous and Moste Talented in the Arte of Magyke)_ who had died at childbirth, like Godric’s own mother.

Most of the discoveries his grandfather wrote about in his journal he attributed to his wife, including all of the potion recipes (that Godric still had yet to try. Honestly. It’s not like he could just go around searching for plants, and where would he get the cauldron without letting Father know? Although ‘Vial of Liquide Explosione’ sounded exciting.) and all of the transfiguration techniques (and Godric had also yet to try Transfiguration, because he didn’t have a wand. His grandfather only briefly mentioned wands, by saying his was made of phoenix feather and chestnut wood. And once again, _where_ would he find phoenix feathers? It’s not like he had ever met a magical creature in his life—and how would he recognize one?!).

But maybe this was only true for witches. Witches, he knew, were nothing like what Father said, because his grandmother had been one (a Witch Withe Beauty Moste Exquisite), according to dear old grandfather). Although it wasn’t like he had ever really _met_ a ‘normal’ woman. Father kept him locked up all day, if not out in the training grounds, then in the study, eating, or sleeping. There _had_ been that family of seamstresses and tailors from some Welsh valleys that had stopped by a while ago, and Father had been forced to let them in so they could measure him for robes. Scarlet, the colour of grandfather’s crest, and gold, which Godric thought was a little pretentious.

There had been the mother, two boys, the tailors, and two girls, the seamstresses. He recalled the last name…Hufflepuff… and that was about it. He had only needed to meet the boys, Henry and Harold, to tailor him for robes, even though the girls would make them. 

So training, studying, eating, sleeping, or listening to Father’s rants. Godric sighed and hid his journal. Father seemed to have a lot of them recently—today he had gone on about some poor noble lord down south in the fenlands who had a disgrace of a son for an heir. He had been taken over by a demon, apparently. Godric had been immediately convinced that the boy was a fellow mage, but careful probing of Father revealed that the ‘demon boy’ in question lived all the way in Selborne, just north of the Channel, while Godric lived several hundred miles north of London. That was far to long a distance to use the _Arte of Apparitus_ to get to, and according the his grandfather’s notes, you could only _Apparitem? Apparitum?_ to places you had been before. Godric had hardly ever traveled out of his town, Godric’s Hollow, and although he longed for adventure, there was one major problem:

He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to cook.

So until something happened, Godric Gryffindor, wizard, really-could-be-knight and sort-of-battle mage, was stuck in the wild moors of Godric’s Hollow.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I'll think of something to say at some point.  
> But until then:  
> Yes, I know this chapter was kinda short, but I mean.  
> Deal.  
> So.  
> Yeah.  
> Thank you for reading, please leave a comment.


	3. Slytherin from Fen

SLYTHERIN FROM FEN

 

**November 6, 981 A.D. Slytherin Manor, Selborne, England**

 

Lucy Livingstone had not expected the day to be anything but normal. Normal, as in, the way it had been for the past three years, ever since she became a servant in the manor of Lord Alder and his wife, Lady Sabrine. They had a son, an heir, but nobody really spoke of him as such, and his parents let the villagers get away with it, because frankly, he was an embarrassment to them. He was just so  _ odd.  _ Nobody could pin it down, not even Lucy, who had been serving him breakfast every morning. Every morning before the sun was in the sky, because as soon as it was, he was sent off to the church.

Lucy slipped into her morning shift, a light grey frock made of rough spun wool from the lord’s herd of sheep that her friend William tended to. These were the fenlands, the marshes, down in the south of England, so it was hard enough to find good land to raise sheep on. Her other friend Emma was the cook. She was long up, and had prepared breakfast for Lucy to take to Lord Alder’s son. 

Lucy shifted her tray to one hand and knocked twice on the carved mahogany door. She had trained herself long ago not to get hungry at the sight of his breakfast, when  _ she  _ ate boiled potatoes every morning, and mashed potatoes for lunch. And Lord Alder had taught her not to steal any of it after reducing her to tears a few times. She supposed that she should be thankful that he hadn’t fired her. Lord Alder was generally a generous lord; did her not allow her to make her dress from his own sheep? 

“Come in,” the boy called, and Lucy pushed the door open slowly. 

His bedsheets sat in a lump on his bed. That was something else she would have to take care of. A book was tossed carelessly on top of it. Lucy could see the missing spot on his bookcase to the right. He sat on his desk, reading a book, a single candle lit. Although the windows just above his desk usually flooded the room with light, the sun had yet to cross the horizon.

And there, right there, was something else  _ odd  _ about him: he had a pet snake! Was it not unusual enough to keep an animal and not eat it? Did it have to be a snake? Everyone knew that it was a snake that had tempted Eve in the garden of Eden, and since then all snakes had been cursed. Lucy doubted that Lord Alder even knew that his son had a pet snake. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him. 

Lucy forced herself not to flinch when the snake raised its head and hissed at her. 

“Your breakfast, milord,” she said quickly, like she had done for the past three years. 

He nodded briefly, black hair shifting, and turned back to his book. The subject of the book would have made Lucy gasp or scream had she bothered to glance down, but she knew better to pry, and it was moot for she had never learned to read, much less in Greek. 

And then she did let out a little shriek; the snake had slithered silently from its perch directly onto her path. 

While she had seen it move and hiss many times, never before had it left its surface on top of the bookshelf. 

She stumbled backwards just a step, but bumped against the table. The tray, not yet steadied, hit the floor with an almighty  _ crash.  _

Unfortunately, this only upset the snake who had come over to smell the food, and it quickly wove its way away from the fallen food… and towards Lucy, who was still standing, grey frock stained with apple cider.

Lucy whimpered once, and then let out a shriek which was immediately followed by her grabbing the letter opener which had fallen to the floor and swinging it wildly. 

The lord’s son was now on his feet, looking in dismay at the ruined breakfast staining his emerald robes, and in horror at Lucy, who was shrieking and swinging her knife at his snake. Its head darted from left to right, searching for a path around her while the shattered clay cup let the apple cider seep into the carpet. 

“Don't hurt her!” He shouted, in presumably what he meant to be a command, had he been his father. But he wasn’t his father, and it came out more like a yelp. 

“Help!” Lucy squeaked back, not even comprehending his words as the snake hissed again and she saw fangs. A full-body shudder went through her before her foot caught on the edge of her dress and she fell backwards. Her head smashed into the leg of the table, sending the candle and ink flying, while the book slid off the edge. Her feet flung outwards as she fell, scuffling the edge of the rug and catapulting the fork in the other direction—the snake’s direction. 

“Help-AHH!” Her cry for help morphed into just a cry, for she had unintentionally nicked the snake, and the sight of blood made her scream all the louder. 

“Don't hurt her!” The lord’s son shouted again. He held out his hands, as if he wanted to pick up the snake, and flinched as Lucy scooted backwards, flinging the letter cutter wildly. “DON’T!” He yelled, thrusting his hands forwards, palms flat. Even though he turned his head away, he saw the ripple in the air, just slightly, like a heat wave that had been forced through a tunnel. And suddenly Lucy was holding a snake instead of a knife. 

“AAGH!” She dropped the snake as if it were fire. This new snake twisted before it hit the ground, landed, and slithered away. The candle had landed on the book, immediately setting it aflame, and the shattered ink pot leaked ink right into the flames, dyeing it black. The book burnt black fire right in front of him, white smoke drifting up as the pages shriveled up into ash. Her head snapped up and stared into the obsidian eyes of the boy, eyes so polished she swore she saw her own terrified reflection behind the black flames by his feet.  _ Lucy had heard that eyes were like windows to your soul. And if that were true, what did it mean that  _ his _ eyes looked like mirrors? _

Everyone knew that black flames didn’t exist. It didn’t occur to Lucy that the ink was dyeing it.  _ If black flames don’t exist, and I see black flames…they must have been summoned from Hell!  If a snake appears where none should be, that means someone must have summoned it.  _

And she had done neither. 

Which meant… 

“D…D…” Lucy raised one shaky finger and pointed it at him.“De… _ Demon!” _

She fled the room.  _ Screaming.  _

 

**March 17, 983 A.D. Slytherin Manor, Selborne, England**

As the men in white robes surrounded the boy, he wondered briefly if mothers weren’t supposed to allow this to happen to their only child.  _ Not if they could stop it, _ he amended. Even if they couldn’t, they shouldn’t just stand there watching. He tried not to breathe too deeply—the scent of incense hung heavily in the air (sage, he thought. Sage, rosewood, and was that—yew berries?). He tried, and failed, not to flinch as they flung ice cold water at him—Holy water, they said. It felt no different than normal water, except perhaps that it was slightly oily. 

Well, if his assumption was correct and his mother was supposed to doing something other than standing in the doorway, holding a Bible to her chest like armour, then Mother could not be his mother. 

And following the same line of logic, Father should not have thrown him in here. He should have tried to help his heir, his son. Because that was definitely not what he and Mother were doing. 

But he had never put that much thought into what made logical sense. Not until now, because what the priests were saying made no sense. Admittedly, what had happened with the servant made no sense, but that was hardly his fault. It was just a series of unfortunate events. 

Mother didn’t see it that way. Neither did Father. So he hated that stupid servant Lucy for running screaming off to his parents, he blamed his parents for listening to her, he blamed everyone for assuming that he had turned a knife into a snake—a serpent, a symbol of evil, they said ( _ “with red eyes!” Lucy claimed, hysterically, when he knew that they were black, unlike his own snake who had yellow eyes, and who should have slithered off, never to be seen again).  _ He hated all the rumours of a black fire he had summoned when it was Ludicrous Lucy who had knocked the candle on his book and spilled the ink on top of it, he hated all the tales his parents let people get away with telling, and his parents for believing the lies that the servant was telling. 

And he hated everyone, all the commoners who didn’t debate what had happened, but whether or not he was a demon or whether there was one inside of him, and his parents for thinking the same.  _ Inside of him,  _ his parents said, and so they had brought these men with white robes and suffocating incense and oily water, they had tossed him in this freezing room (something about the fires of Hell) with the same breakfast stained clothes for how long he knew not, with no food but  _ hostia _ —Latin for sacramental bread, he knew, what the priest gave during church ( _ something about feeding the demon _ , the priests said) and steaming water ( _ cleansing water of Christ _ , the priests said).

It was a lot of things to hate, but he did. Bitterly and resentfully. 

Christians weren't supposed to hate. Therefore he must not be a good Christian. That didn't mean that he was a demon. 

All he knew was that he could feel his fingers anymore. Or his toes. He could see his breath in the air, and knew he was running out of it. And if there  _ was  _ a demon inside of him, wouldn’t he know? Because he was reasonably sure that if you had a demon inside of you, then you wouldn’t consider that you did, and he had—until deciding that it was ridiculous, because… well, if it was anybody, it would be the servant. It really was all her fault.  _ She  _ had been the one holding the knife. 

And now the priests swayed in place, chanting, white robes swishing from side to side. Each held a candle in their hand, and one held a silver chalice inlaid with gold. 

_ “O Domine, Deus caeli, qui semper Propitius esto, exaudi nos…” _

Their tenor voices hummed in harmony. It seemed to sooth Mother, but it grated on his ears. He craned his head to see her through the circle of priests. 

“Mother…?” His voice, hoarse, cracked even as he whispered. She flinched. Some part of his brain noted that despite the freezing temperature of the room, her fingers were going to leave sweat stains on the vellum cover of the book. 

_ “Liberate hoc puer, puerum tuum: ex hoc daemonium tenaci. Mundabit eum, et mundaret sibi cura te ipsum, domne…” _

He had learned how to speak Latin recently (at least, he thought it was recently. Time kept playing tricks on him), so he knew exactly what they were saying. It was similar to what they had said the past… twenty times they had been here? He was losing count. He was having trouble remembering things. That couldn’t be good. He knew what happened afterward: Father would come in, yell at him, and then leave again. And then the priests would come again in a few—days?  _ Weeks _ ? He closed his eyes.  _ Months _ ? He must be imagining things, for he was seeing Father chase him around with a torch in this room, yelling French obscenities. 

_ “Fiat justitia tua, et miserere nobis luceat terra: fiat voluntas tua in terris sicut est in caelis…”  _ Their voices rose, some in volume, some in pitch, some in both.  __

He shivered again, and they stepped closer, candles flickering. 

_ “Flamma ignis et lux intus habeat tenebras fugat perpetuum…” _

_ That was new,  _ he thought dimly.  _ The priests never mention fire. It’s usually associated with Hell.  _ It was also getting hard to think properly. His mind kept wandering off to random topics. Although when he got really cold, there was a sort of heat within him that made him feel safe.

_ He had known he was different for a long time. He had known since he made a book fly. But he didn’t think he could turn a knife into a snake, or survive in this cold much longer.  _

The priest with the chalice broke the circle, getting closer to him. He walked carefully around him, tipping the cup and what looked like oil dripped on the stone floor.  _ This is also new.  _ The boy’s thoughts swirled like river water on top of the muddy banks, getting stuck in the reeds.

“ _ Ut igne sancti lucebunt luce, Dei nostri gratiam transferentes secum semper!”  _

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like the oil that oozed through the stone cracks as he sat, huddled, in the center. He didn’t like the way a servant brought in a bundle of sticks and ran off. He didn’t like the priests approaching with their scented candles. He didn’t like them throwing the sticks inside of the circle. He didn’t like what they were saying.  _ May this fire shine with your Holy light, may the grace of our God be with him, always…  _ What fire? It would be nice to have a fire in here, he thought dimly. Because it was so cold. But you couldn’t start a fire on stone. Or maybe you could? With God’s Grace, or something like that. Maybe that's why they were mentioning the grace of God. To keep him warm? No, that didn’t make sense. He felt something snap in his mind, and knew he had drifted off again.  _ You idiot, you don’t need a circle of priests chanting to start a fire.  _ He didn’t like the idea of a fire in this room, cold or not. He didn’t like their voices, rising until they boomed off the stone walls.

“Mother…” he said again, and again she flinched. He couldn’t remember the last time she had talked to him. “Mother, I don’t like this. Mother stop them!” 

Tears were running down her face now, tears that were ruining the book she held in her hands, but she didn’t seem to care.

_ “Ut ignem destruendum daemonii sit liberare innocentem filium tenendos prosit adurat nostri tenebras lucem et eduxerim!” _

He didn’t like how they mentioned fire so much, not when the used the word destroy as well, especially not when they held their candles so close to the oil, so close it could ignite-

_ FOOM. _

All at once, foot-high flames, blue and sickly yellow and Spanish red, leapt up in a circle all around him, as the priests dropped their candles and jumped back.

“Put it out!” He screamed. He pulled in closer, head between his knees. “Mother! Make them put it out— _ Mother they’re burning me!” _

She was sobbing now, head in her precious Bible, while the priests watched with haunted, determined eyes. 

“It is the demon,” he heard one of the priests telling Mother condescendingly (because she was a woman? They didn’t talk this way to Father). “It seeks to protect itself within its host—it plays on my lady’s emotions.” 

She nodded, never looking up, and her son thought he heard her mumble something about God’s protection. 

The trail of flames leapt from stick to stick, creeping closer, so close it started to singe his robe. He threw it off, over the fire, and the men jumped back yelling as it lit and started to burn. The smoke stung his eyes, and he closed them while the back of his neck began to sweat. His white cotton tunic began the heat. The air was so hot it was scalding. He curled up in a ball and whimpered when the flames licked at his feet. He tried nudging a stick away when it abruptly burst into flames. He jumped back, and then scrambled right when he landed on a smoldering branch. 

“BEGONE, DEMON!” The lead priest boomed, as he and the other priests backed away to the door.

_ “Mother, help me!”  _ The boy screamed, inhaling smoke and choking. “ _ Father! Please!”  _ Tears slid down his face, and evaporated before they could hit the ground. 

But only the fire answered. 

_ He had known he was different for a long time. He had known since he made a book fly. But he didn’t think he could turn a knife into a snake… and he knew he couldn’t survive being burned alive.  _

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I headcanon him to be a mix of Loki and Tom Riddle, which is bad, when you think about it.   
> Also, please tell me what you hated about it!


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